Death

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Title:     Death
Author: George Borrow [More Titles by Borrow]

From the Arabic.

Grim Death in his shroud swatheth mortals each hour,
Yet little we reck of what's hanging us o'er;
O would on the world that ye laid not such stress,
That its baubles ye lov'd not, so gaudy and poor;
O where are the friends we were wont to caress,
And where are the lov'd ones who dwelt on our floor?
They have drank of the goblet of death's bitterness,
And have gone to the deep, to return never more;
Their mansions bewail them in tears and distress;
Yet has paradise lovelier mansions in store;
Of the worth of the plume the dove strips from its dress
Were their views, save in memory heaven they bore.

[The end]
George Borrow's poem: Death

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